The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #1)(12)

Probably everything.

Eyebrows. Legs.

Puss—

“I’m so confused,” Fuck Buddy interrupts. “What is going on?”

We ignore her.

“Long story short, Oz won a bet and he has me to thank.”

“That’s it? What services were you talking about before?” Allison probes, her eyes roaming the room. “Would one of you please explain what’s going on?”

Jameson shakes her head. “Sorry Al, but this is between me and Oswald here.” She grabs Fuck Buddy by the arm and tugs. “Come on, let’s find Parker—that is the reason we’re here, isn’t it? So you can paw at him shamelessly while hopped up on liquid courage?”

Allison blushes prettily. “Yes.” Still, her eyes skim the front of my jeans, landing on the bulge there. “Nice finally meeting you in person. I hate doing the walk of shame down your hallway, Oswald.”

Shit, that’s right. I’ve only ever seen her ass in the morning walking out the door—and I occasionally hear her moaning Parker’s name during their loud, dirty f*cking.

Oswald?

Damn if the sound of another girl saying it doesn’t grate on my last nerve. I cross my arms and nod, watching as Jameson drags her friends off, her rapid retreat kind of...insulting.

I feel slightly offended that she just left me standing here by myself.

Weird, right?

That almost never happens.

Fine. It never does.

Intrigued, irritated, and slightly enthralled, my competitive nature has my senses instinctually tracking her whereabouts throughout the whole goddamn evening.

It’s rather inconvenient.

I catch glimpses of her: James and that damn prissy sweater that’s somehow come unbuttoned. A sober James with Jack Pryer, a first-year football redshirt, giggling it up in the corner. A sober James with Fuck Buddy near the keg. A sober James tipping her head to tie that silky brown hair back, walking in and out of the front door, presumably for fresh air.

James, James, f*cking Jameson Clark and the annoying-as-shit strand of pearls around her neck. The more I stare, the more aggravated I become, especially when I spot her in the living room with my roommate Elliot.

Elliot, who’s actually a decent guy. Stable and reliable, he’s the serious academic sort—finance and pre-law—and probably a better fit for Jameson than I am.

Better fit for her? Shit, what the hell am I saying?

I must be drunk.

The beer flows and so do the shots.

By midnight, I’m shitfaced enough to stop monitoring her every movement all night like a stalker. Shitfaced enough to stop watching every monotonous move she makes. Shitfaced enough to curb whatever possessive instincts are welling up inside my drunk ass—not because I like her, but because the poor thing looks so out of place in her boring ass cardigan, and for some ungodly reason, I feel a f*cked up sense of brotherly affection.

Affection? Affliction? Affection—horrible adjective, but it’s the best I can do under the circumstances.

She spares no such courtesy for me as she continues flirting with Elliot.

Inhaling another beer, my attention wavers only when a hand snakes around my waist, slides over my hard abs. Warm lips meet the side of my neck, and Christ if that doesn’t feel good. Reaching around, I grab the unidentified round ass behind me, giving it a firm squeeze.

“Oz baby, it’s me,” a throaty female voice purrs in my ear. “Did you miss me?”

The owner of that voice moves to my front, dragging her talented hands across my middle, over my lower abs, fingers tugging at the denim waistband of my jeans. “Can I get you alone, baby? There’s no one in the last bedroom. I checked.”

Say baby one more time, I intone sarcastically. Or better yet, shut the hell up.

“Maybe.” I drag the words out as she toys with the fly of my pants. “If you stop talking.”

She nods, red hair and breasts bobbing enthusiastically. We stumble backward, toward the hall, and I back her against the wall, fingers grappling with her tight leggings, stroking the smooth skin beneath her belly button. With an exaggerated moan worthy of a porn star, she shoves her tongue in my mouth with a husky, “I want you to screw me, Oz.”

I cup the back of her head, dragging a sloppy kiss across her lips, voice devoid of any emotion. “How about you blow me instead?”

With another eager head bob, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and gives me a light shove toward a bedroom door three feet to my right…or is that the closet?

“Not in the hall, though, kay?”

Well, no shit not in the hall. I’m more of a gentleman than that. Jesus Christ.

Still, I let her work my zipper, pulling and tugging while I fumble sloppily for the doorknob. She drags it down slowly, right in the hall for anyone to see, her practiced fingers working their way inside my jeans. The door handle gives way just as a shock of emerald appears in my peripheral.

Bright green sweater, gleaming pearls, dark brown hair, and bright blue eyes come to a stunned halt in the corridor. Turn toward us. Stop dead in their tracks, frozen like a deer in headlights.

Or like a virgin in sacrifice.

“Crap, sorry,” comes an all too familiar voice.

Shit.

Winter hat back in place, pulled down over that long, silky brown hair, it frames her innocent face and pisses me the f*ck off. Too wide-eyed, too inquisitive.